After the Rain pb-5 Page 12

  “You’re enjoying this, whoring for George W.,” he said between clenched teeth.

  She whispered right back. “Oh really? What about that sleazy little cunt Jolene Sommer you fucked last year?”

  “We were separated,” he yelled, suddenly on the defensive, feeling the force drain from his raised hand. Should have never never told her about Jolene.

  “Asshole!” she shouted back.

  On the porch, Ace turned to Gordy. “I think I just won a hundred bucks, ’cause you can’t fake that. Uh-uh. Those people are definitely married.”

  Nina stepped inside the arc of Broker’s swing and slapped his face. Stung, Broker recoiled, recovered, and grabbed a fistful of her short hair and wrenched her head to the side. Then he held her at arm’s length as she swung at him, a haymaker windmilling in midair…

  Shuster came off the porch fast, athletic; he stepped between them and announced, “You’re outta line, fella.”

  Broker reached around him to get at Nina. Shuster shouldered him, holding his hands up, all defense, not aggressive, trying to be reasonable. “I said, you’re outta line.”

  Broker turned his attention to Shuster. He blinked, his face worked. His breath came in a rush. All his anger flashed like chain lightning, and he had to ground it somewhere or he’d just burn up right there. Before he realized it, he had squared off. Shuster’s hands came up. But they were still open and signifying calm.

  “Man…”

  Broker changed up the speed, his hands a blur. He feinted right with his shoulder and fired a left jab, very crisp and fast, that piled into Shuster’s right cheek-

  BIGMISTAKE!!!!!!!

  The force went out of the punch and his whole nervous system cringed and scream-balled up like a spider in a flame. His knees buckled, his good hand shot to protect his fiery left hand. Shuster blinked, surprised, raised his hand to his face.

  Now Gordy trotted forward and muttered to Shuster. “Step back, Ace. You can’t be mixin’ in this. You got that DUI, remember? They’ll throw you back in jail.”

  Gordy came straight ahead and Broker resigned himself to taking a punch for Delta Force, Donald Rumsfeld, and Homeland Security. Goddamn shit!

  Gordy let fly, a powerful but sloppy overhand right. Like he was driving an engineer stake into hardpan. Jarred, seeing a starburst, Broker took it high on the left cheek and temple.

  Broker staggered back, shook his head. Gingerly he tested his cheekbone. Unbroken. He’d have a black eye. A sore neck. Shuster restrained Gordy’s cocked right fist. “That’s enough, Gordy. Let him go,” he said.

  Gordy Riker bounced, doing a huff-and-puff number with his shoulders. Broker did a modified Charlie Chaplin pratfall, tripping as he stepped back. He fell on his butt on the damp trap rock. Gordy hovered-porcupiney, short-fused, mean. Then, when Broker didn’t attempt to get up, Gordy swaggered back to the bar.

  Shuster walked Nina protectively back toward the porch, then stopped and came back to where Broker sat unceremoniously on his rear end.

  “You don’t gotta listen to me but I’m going to give you a little advice. I just been through a divorce myself, and one thing I learned is people need a little space.”

  Broker glared at him, all the while muttering deep inside how, granted, his left hand was under the weather and how maybe he should get up and introduce this hayseed to his right hand. Instead, he reflected that the ability to defer satisfaction was a sign of maturity; so he played his assigned role and remained on his butt.

  Shuster joined Nina and Gordy and they went back up the steps into the saloon. Broker dropped his eyes and stared at a tiny procession of black ants picking their way through the pebbles.

  Maybe you could stick around.

  Yes, dear.

  Broker grimaced and felt a puffy bruise swelling up below his left eye. He looked up and down the deserted highway. Just the green fields, the low gray clouds. Across the road he saw a rusting Bobcat sitting in weeds in what had once been a parking lot. A fading John Deere logo painted up on the front of a large washed-out yellow pole barn. Weather-beaten letters spelled SHUSTER AND SONS EQUIPMENT. Thought he saw the shadow of someone standing in the doorway, watching. When he looked again, the guy was gone.

  “You’re asking a lot,” he said under his breath as he slowly got to his feet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dale Shuster stood in the doorway of Shuster and Sons Equipment and watched the commotion across the road in front of the Missile Park, thinking it had been a long time since anybody’d got in a fight in that parking lot. And it didn’t turn out to be much of a fight, anyway, so eventually he turned away. The woman had showed up on Saturday. By the next afternoon, she had guys fighting over her. He shook his head. With his brother Ace it was always women. And not just the kind of women who went with booze. Women liked him.

  ’Cause he’s good-looking, lean, and has that smile.

  The opposite of me.

  Dale got a pretty good look at her, and she seemed to be a short-haired redhead, kind of trashy and skinny.

  Whatever.

  He paced the interior of the pole barn and heard his boot soles echo faintly on the crumbling concrete slab. Empty like a cavern in here. Dale had this habit that, if he didn’t concentrate, he saw things the way they looked when he was a child. Like this place. He remembered it full of big iron-bright-yellow backhoes, crawler dozers, loaders, and graders. Back in the missile time, when Dad was in the money; always chewing a cigar, talking on the phone in the front office, his brother Ace jockeying the big machines around the lot.

  Before they got the house in town.

  When they still had the farm.

  Dale blinked. He was staring up at a dull speckle of light. Holes sprayed in the corrugated sheet metal where Ace, age sixteen, had become exasperated with the pigeons and grabbed the shotgun and pumped off a few shells of birdshot. That was Ace, impulsive. Dale would have been six…

  Unlike his brother, Dale was methodical. That’s why their dad left him in charge of shutting down the equipment accounts and selling off the last of the inventory.

  A task that was near completion. All he had left on the premises was the one Deere front-loader out back. And the backhoe attachment, which he’d already sold.

  He returned to his desk at the front of the building. Shuster and Sons never had much of an office, just the desk, a small refrigerator, a computer, phone, fax, and a TV set mounted on the wall. Off to the right of the desk, walled off behind a partition, were a toilet and sink.

  Dale sat down on the ancient swivel chair and stared at the clock. Some things he couldn’t tidy up by being methodical. Like the weather. He picked up the remote and thumbed on the TV. He’d been tuned in to the Weather Channel exclusively for the last week.

  Rain was bad for the equipment business.

  He waited through a commercial and then watched Heather Tesch stand in front of a map of the United States. Behind her, a straggling green amoeba of precipitation crept across North Dakota, Minnesota, and into Wisconsin. Low pressure squatted on the Midwest, fed by a warm front coming from the Gulf.

  The Gulf air drove the jet stream into a coil up and into the North, disrupting the normal pattern. Where the hot Gulf air and cool stuff from Canada collided it was raining like hell. In the wake of the storms, the fields were green sponges.

  At least the thunderstorms had moved on through Minnesota and Wisconsin and were petering out along Lake Michigan. It caused delays. Even the biggest crawlers were stymied by mud.

  But he’d used up all his waiting sitting behind this desk, sifting through these files. When he started working for his dad he’d had an electric typewriter and a rotary phone. Dad never really trusted him on the big iron; that was Ace’s job, running the machines. Dad put Dale in the office. When he started he’d filled legal pads with his crisp penmanship-Palmer Method-drilled into him at Langdon Elementary in the second grade by flat-chested Miss Heidi Klunder, with skin like oatmeal and skinny blond h
air.

  Not like Ginny Weller.

  That was ten years ago and he could still hear Ginny’s voice like it was right now, like in an echo chamber; still feel the tease of her lips, her moist warm breath against his ear. “C’mon Dale baby, we’re all alone, just you and me. Just be a minute and I’ll give you a feel…”

  He dropped his eyes to the computer screen, clicked through the invoices. He tried to avoid looking at the clock on the wall. But in the right-hand corner of the blue bar at the bottom of the screen the digital time stared at him.

  Once he had endured time like everybody else. Now he felt it gushing like a Niagara of digital code through his chest. He tried to get his mind around numbers; tried to imagine a million people going about their lives, all of them taking time for granted. None of them knowing for sure how many days, minutes, hours, seconds…

  He laughed. Christ, there weren’t a million people in all of North Dakota.

  Then, vividly, he pictured the tape hidden in the kitchen pantry, in a box of Fruit Loops. He moved the tape every day to a different hidey-hole.

  Thinking about the tape stopped his breath. He almost gasped. The tumescent squirm of anticipation was like the petals of a flower opening deep inside. Gave him shivers.

  For years, down in his basement apartment, alone, he’d fanta-sized the image of Ginny Weller down on her knees, begging him not to punish her for what she’d-

  The bell on the front door jingled and Gordy Riker strolled in looking very pleased with himself. The image of Ginny vanished. Gordy had an elbow raised and was conspicuously sucking on the knuckles of his right hand.

  “Hey, Needle-Dick, we gotta talk.” Gordy bouncy, full of himself, jerked his thick neck back across the road.

  “Don’t call me that,” Dale said calmly.

  Gordy mugged surprise at Dale’s controlled response. It only slowed him for a few beats. “Okay, sure, I’m sorry. Don’t mean to offend. But the thing is, you gotta talk to Ace.”

  “I heard about the woman, and I just saw you hit that guy.”

  “You see me put him on his ass with one punch? He’s bigger’n me, too.”

  “Who is he?” Dale said.

  “Bitch’s husband, she says.” Gordy furrowed his brow.

  “What do you mean, ‘she says’?” Dale said.

  “Kinda coincidental, don’t you think? She shows up in a bar hardly nobody goes to, on a highway hardly nobody who ain’t local uses,” Gordy said.

  “So?”

  “And she’s traveling with the only lesbian ever seen north of Grand Forks.”

  Dale perked up, went to the window, and stared across the highway at the bar. “A lesbian? Here? No shit.” Now that would be something.

  “What I’m saying is, it’s too coincidental. Nobody comes to Langdon except…”

  “Yeah, yeah, for weddings, funerals, or unless their job sends them here,” Dale said. He smiled at Gordy’s consternation. “So you think she’s working, huh?” If Gordy was worried, it could only be about one thing. “Some kind of snitch? Cop maybe?”

  Gordy shrugged. “Maybe the Canadian excise people are bitching about the whiskey again.”

  Dale’s smile broadened, enjoying Gordy’s discomfort. “Ace don’t ship that much. It’s the meth has everybody riled. More likely she’s after you.”

  Gordy was not amused. “Ha ha. But that ain’t the point. Ace’s thinking with his pecker. I mean, c’mon, at the very least she’s a lush. And he’s drinking.”

  “Think of that: the two of them shacked up in the back room. They’ll drink up the inventory.”

  “I’m serious here. They catch him driving and drinking one more time, he’ll be eating takeout pizza in county. Walking the halls for exercise, on one cigarette a day.”

  Dale shrugged fatalistically. “It’s because of Darlene and the kids leaving. The divorce.” He made a sympathetic assay with his flat blue eyes. But behind his expression he hid a swell of satisfaction. Ace was finally falling back to earth in flaming, whiskey-soaked pieces, spiraling so low he was almost taking orders from this piece of shit, Gordy, who’d had a D average, who had to go to summer school to graduate. Who had to get special permission from the principal to go on the Senior Trip.

  “So what do you say? Have a talk with him.”

  Dale nodded without enthusiasm. “He don’t listen to me, you know.”

  “At least try.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

  Gordy nodded, looked around. “So, ah, where’s our favorite funny fucking Indian?”

  Dale settled back into his desk chair and took his time reaching into the refrigerator, taking out a Coke, popping the top. Gordy called Joe Reed the “funny fucking Indian” because Joe had this very un-Indian habit, according to Gordy, anyway, of always being strictly on time.

  So that’s why he’s here. He wants Joe back. Dale jerked his head north. “Went over the border yesterday. Don’t know why. He don’t exactly leave detailed trip tickets. Guy like Joe, I don’t really want to know.”

  “I hear you. Well, when he gets his sneaky blanket ass back here, tell him to drop by and talk to me,” Gordy said.

  “You ain’t got the balls to say that to his face,” Dale said.

  They stared each other down. Gordy broke first, laughed, and said, “You’re absolutely right. But like I said, ask him polite to drop by.”

  “I don’t think he’s into running your dope across the border anymore, Gordy,” Dale said.

  “Yeah, right. He’s got such a future here, huh?”

  “Hey.” Dale brightened. “I just sold off two of my last three machines, Irv Fuller bought ’em. He’s in the big time now. Got that construction outfit outside the Twin Cities, just won the bid on a big job.”

  “Irv Fuller.” Gordy made a face.

  “Yeah, Irv Fuller,” Dale said. Irv had been Homecoming King. And Ginny Weller had been Homecoming Queen.

  “Did Irv pay you?”

  “Put some money down,” Dale said.

  “That’s Irv. Be twenty years getting the balance.”

  Dale shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I gotta feeling this deal is going to work out for me.”

  “Yeah, right. So whattaya say, talk to Ace, will you?”

  “I told you. I’ll try.”

  “Good. So, ah, what are you going to do?”

  “Sell off the last machine and lock the door. You know anybody needs a cheap 644 front-end loader?”

  “That one?” Gordy pointed to the big yellow tractor sitting deeper in the shed. “The wheels are bald.”

  “That’s why it’s so cheap.”

  Gordy shook his head. “Then what? Go down to Florida with your dad?”

  Dale grinned broadly. “Probably.”

  “Well, good luck, Needle-Dick.”

  Dale stood up and placed his hands on his hips. “Don’t call me that ever again.”

  Gordy laughed and held out his hands and wiggled his fingers in a mock fright. “Oooh.”

  “I mean it, I’m giving you fair warning,” Dale said calmly.

  “Needle-Dick.” Gordy grinned, flipped Dale the bird, and walked out of the office. Dale watched him swagger back across the road, go up the porch, and disappear into the Missile Park.

  Dale held his fists tight against his chest. Ten years Gordy had been picking on him.

  He had lost his focus and now he had to get it back.

  He took a couple of cold Cokes from the small refrigerator and tossed them in his backpack. People used to ride him about the pack. Just a tiny thing in his huge hands, the seams parting, yellow with a little blue butterfly on the flap. It had been his schoolbag in elementary school. Just room for two Cokes and a sandwich.

  Methodically, he shut off the lights, locked the door, and walked to his ancient Grand Prix. Getting in, his boots poked around, stirring through a compost of hamburger wrappers on the floorboards.

  The windshield was clouded with grime. Dale paid no mind. He started th
e car and drove north along the grid of roads through wind-rippled fields that were mostly empty. Here and there he saw a huge-wheeled tractor. The skeletal rails of a hay wagon. They were waiting on the crop to ripen. Waiting on the custom combiners to come through.

  He poked the radio and KNDK came on with the weather for the Drayton, Walhalla, and Langdon area: cloudy and humid, ninety-two degrees. Legion baseball tonight, Langdon at Grafton. First pitch at 5:45, weather permitting. Dale turned it off when the Successful Farmers’ Radio Magazine theme music started up.

  He thought of the deserted homes that dotted the fields. Successful farmers, my ass! The houses were just hulks, long since abandoned; the farm families who used to live in them had been torpedoed by consolidation and had sunk out of sight beyond the sea of wheat.

  Finally he pulled into an overgrown driveway. He shut off the motor and listened to the buzz of the cicadas. The damp ferment of sodden crops rolled over him as he looked up the drive at the house. He had fields of his own in his chest. He could feel the waves of sadness rippling off to the horizon.

  He heaved out and walked toward the peeling farmhouse. Every year it looked more tiny and more run-down. The wind had finally stove in the north end of the barn and now it sagged in on the foundation. The once vibrant red lumber had faded to gray splinters. The old pasture and truck garden were long since plowed up and put into wheat.

  He heard a rasp of steel-sheets of rusty tin that had come loose on the Quonset shed in back of the house. A death rattle in the wind.

  Hard to believe a family of five had lived in this tiny place. Two bedrooms upstairs, an alcove downstairs with a curtain on a runner for his sister. The old Fisher woodstove.

  He stopped and stared at the blister packs of Sudafed torn open and littered on the steps. Rage stirred in his chest as he kicked through the wrappers that dotted the steps and the mud porch. Fuckers. They snuck in here and cooked meth.

  He trudged up the stairs and into the room he’d shared with his brother until he was seven. The springs from his old bed lay in a rusted tangle next to the window. The springs creaked as he lowered his weight down on them.